The Inner-Peace Initiative

Abstract

The Inner-Peace Initiative Michael Fessler (bio) A man, whom I had never seen before, slapped a small card down on the counter of the coffee shop in Bunkyo Ward, Tokyo. I frowned. When I'm at window, as I term it, I don't like being disturbed. That's why people do it, of course. "Give me your reaction," the man said, "if you wouldn't mind." On the card were the following three lines: under the gingko left at the persimmon past the sundial "Directions presumably," I said. "You might say that." "I did say that." "You weren't certain though." I looked at the man. I mean looked. He was slender. Blond hair. Oblong head with pointy features. In his forties, I guessed. No wrinkles. Wore a vest that could have used washing. "Hard to please, aren't you?" Was he a photojournalist or something? Did he have a camcorder and intend to make a film? Expat at Window. The docudrama. Sip. Sip. Sip. "It's a haiku," he said. "Right." I read it again. "Where does it lead?" "Nowhere," he said. "Been there many times," I chuckled and patted him on the shoulder in a burst of bonhomie. I could feel his bones. He was skimpy on the flesh. "If I had specified the what or where, it would have killed the poem." [End Page 113] He moved his shoulders back and forth as if he were walking. But he was sitting. "Okay, I take your point. It's open-ended." "So you like it?" "It has potential." "C'mon, take a stand." To think I had been placidly gazing out the window. "I need a little time to adjust to the profundity of it," I said. "No rush." "Alone." "You don't seem to be a loner. You have leadership qualities." Oh, no. "What's your name, if I may ask?" "Stark," I said, against my better judgment. "Henry." "Stark Henry, like Patrick Henry? Give me liberty?" "Like Henry Stark. Give me a break." He giggled. "I'm Aurelius." He flipped the card over. On the reverse was written: Aurelius Fee. Buddhist Mind Reader & Haiku Poet "I have no card," I said. "I don't believe in them." "We have a little haiku group. Meet once a month. You're welcome to join us." "Do you charge money?" "Please?" "Is there a fee?" I meant that facetiously, of course. Given the name on the card. "I often ask myself that," he said. "You do?" "I am Aurelius Fee, but is there really an Aurelius Fee?" Cooperate. He could be dangerous. "You might bulk out some," I suggested. "If you're really . . ." "I mean, is there really an Aurelius Fee spiritually?" he glossed, which explained nothing. "Yeah, well, there's really a Henry Stark." "Demonstrably." I suppose I had demonstrated it, but this was becoming unnecessarily abstruse. Or it was enough complexity for one sitting. Young Mr. Fee seemed to understand and he got up and left. Didn't even say goodbye. [End Page 114] Just walked out of Dream's Coffee. That was the slightly strange but evocative name of the café. It was a chain shop. I put his card in my book, which happened to be a collection of the writings of the Japanese haiku poet, Santoka. Had Santoka wondered if there was really a Santoka? Maybe he did. ________ I didn't connect with Fee for a long time after that. Well, not for six months. Six months is a long time when you're my age. That is, mid-sixties. You have to prioritize. You have to set reachable goals. It's probably too late to take up Sanskrit in any serious way, for example. But I keep busy. Do a lot of walking. Always have a book with me. That's my life. A book. A walk. A window. A coffee. Simple. One afternoon (it was now winter and bloody cold), I was in Bunkyo Ward again. There was a slight drizzle and I stopped at Dream's Coffee. I like the anonymity of the chains. I like the paper cups. I spotted a free seat by the window and...